


The Place To Rest My Head

by mrs_d



Series: Fingers Interlaced [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Trauma, Natasha is a very good friend, Platonic Cuddling, Polyamory, Sam-Centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-05-31 23:17:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6491431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_d/pseuds/mrs_d
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve looked at him with raw, red eyes that Sam knew matched his own, then he nodded and turned away. Sam followed him out into the grey pre-dawn light, and they drove to the motel as silently as they’d done everything else the last two days, since Bucky had gotten shot in four places.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from the Florence + The Machine song, "Never Let Me Go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the "medical trauma" tag above; this chapter has the worst of it.

The worn mattress groaned under Sam’s back as Steve — sweat shining along his hairline and pooling in the hollow of his throat — climbed up over him. Sam canted his hips and lifted his legs, and Steve leaned in until Sam could feel the blunt tip of his cock pressing against his opening, slick from Steve’s fingers. The bottle of lube he’d been using rolled beside Sam’s waist as Steve shifted his weight and entered him steadily, not as carefully or gently as Bucky would.

Steve’s eyes were closed, like they had been when he’d pressed Sam against the wall of the empty men’s room at the hospital an hour ago. They’d just gotten the news that Bucky’s doctor had induced a coma; it turned out that pentobarbital was one drug Bucky wasn’t resistant to, which both made sense and made Sam sick. He’d gone to the restroom thinking he might vomit, but Steve had followed him in and stepped close enough that Sam could feel the slight tremor moving through his body.

Sam had reached out, and Steve kissed him, taking charge at once and walking them backwards until Sam’s back hit the wall, almost hard enough to hurt. All at once, they were tugging at each other with frantic hands, their mouths hot and desperate.

“Hey,” Sam had whispered, forcing himself to pull back when Steve’s fingers slipped inside the waistband of his jeans. “Let’s get out of here if you want to start that again.”

Steve had looked at him with raw, red eyes that Sam knew matched his own, then he nodded and turned away. Sam had followed him out into the grey pre-dawn light, and they’d driven to the motel as silently as they’d done everything else the last two days, since Bucky had gotten shot in four places.

Steve took hold of Sam’s cock suddenly, his hand still slippery from opening him up, and palmed it roughly, his thumb pressing almost too hard on that sensitive place just under the head. That was how Bucky liked it, Sam knew, but it wasn’t to his taste. He shifted, made a small noise of discomfort — something Bucky would have noticed right away — but Steve didn’t change his technique until Sam wrapped his hand around his and showed him how he wanted to be touched.

Steve stilled his hips and opened his eyes, watching Sam’s hand move his. Once he’d matched the motion, the rhythm, Sam took his hand away, and Steve glanced up, giving him something like an apologetic look. His lips parted, he drew in a breath.

“Don’t,” said Sam, suddenly fearful.

Whatever this was between them, words would break it. They’d gone this long without talking about it, without looking at it, without facing what they both knew they were making up for, the empty space they were each trying to fill.

“Sam,” Steve tried, but Sam raised himself up and kissed him, cutting him off.

He started rocking his hips, coaxing Steve back into fucking him. With a tiny, frustrated groan, Steve obliged, the bed protested, and soon Sam was gasping over the edge, while Steve’s thrusts went ragged before slowing and stopping.

Sam tried to hang on, to let the last traces of pleasure blot out the world for just a little bit longer, knowing Steve was doing the same thing above him. It should have been reassuring, the knowledge that, no matter what, they were together in this, side-by-side whether fighting, loving, or grieving, but Sam took little comfort in it. Because as soon as Steve started moving again, pulling out, pulling away, all Sam was left with was the bitter taste of exploitation, of using and being used.

At last, Steve opened his eyes, but he didn’t say anything. Any chance for talking had passed. Again.

The mattress creaked as Steve stood. He crossed the room, heading for the bathroom. Sam heard the shush of running water, followed by the rustle of fabric. A minute later, Steve emerged, fully dressed. He grabbed his jacket from where they’d flung it in their hurry to get to the bed, and stepped into his shoes.

“Be right back,” he said, opening the door and letting in a bright patch of morning sun. 

“Where are you going?” Sam asked.

Steve hesitated, then stepped through the door and closed it gently behind him.

Sam slumped back against the pillows for a moment, then got up. He went to the window and twitched aside the curtain; the black car that they’d rented was still in the lot, but Steve was nowhere in sight.

“Goddammit,” Sam sighed, and he went to take a shower.

* * *

The gunshots had come too loud and too close together to count, and Sam saw Steve reaching for him before he even realized he was unfolding his wings.

“Sorry, Fly Boy. Guess I should’ve wore the good Kevlar after all,” Bucky mumbled when they found him. “Fucking ambush, should’ve known...”

“Save your breath, baby,” Sam replied absently, barely aware that the sound he was hearing was Steve returning fire with Bucky’s discarded rifle. “I got you.”

“Cold,” Bucky muttered as Sam sliced through layers of enforced clothing to access the injuries.

Bucky’s right leg was bad, a through-and-through by the looks of it, but the holes in his gut had Sam really worried. He couldn’t possibly dig the bullets out of whatever organs had stopped their trajectory, so he closed the wounds and prayed they'd hold until they got to a hospital. While he was busy with that, Steve appeared at his side with a tourniquet for Bucky’s leg, which was bleeding out faster than Sam could handle alone.

Bucky smiled up at both of them while they worked, even as a bright red bubble burst between his ashen lips. He drew a wet breath, like he was going to say something, but his eyelids fluttered down instead. Sam and Steve glanced at each other, then secured the bandages and strapped Bucky into Sam’s harness.

He made it to the ER in six minutes — better than any ambulance could have done, given that they were in the middle of the woods. The surgeon, one of only three hospital staff who knew Bucky’s true identity, told Sam that he’d probably saved Bucky’s life, super soldier or not.

But Sam still had the weighty sense that he could have done more. When he looked at his hands, all he saw was Bucky’s blood.

* * *

Sam had been out of the shower ten minutes when the motel room door opened, and Steve — the man he would have called his best friend two days ago — entered, carrying a plain white plastic bag. He must have gone down the block to the convenience store, though for what, Sam couldn’t begin to guess.

“Do you want to head back?” Sam asked him.

Steve fidgeted, not meeting Sam’s eyes. “Can we?”

Sam all but jumped up off the end of the bed where he’d been sitting. “Yeah, let’s go.”

On their way to the hospital, Sam’s phone buzzed. He pulled it out of his pocket to see a one-word message from Natasha.

_Report?_

Sam looked over at Steve, at his knuckles, white against the steering wheel, at the hard line of his jaw, at the reflection of the windshield in his aviator sunglasses.

 _Situation normal_ , Sam typed. _All fucked up._


	2. Chapter 2

There was a new nurse behind the reception desk at the ICU when they returned, a petite woman with natural curls whom Sam had never seen before. She stared at them a lot, but she seemed more star-struck than shady. Steve was his usual charming self with her, flashing his patented Captain America smile when he asked about John Doe. Watching him set off an ache in Sam’s chest; clearly he was the only one Steve wasn’t speaking to.

The nurse buzzed open the door, and Sam followed Steve in, keeping pace with his long strides, scanning the bustling ward for anything shifty. Rhodey and Stark were flying the perimeter in shifts, while the rest of the team ran intel, and Sam wouldn’t be surprised if Natasha or Clint were hiding in the ventilation shafts somewhere. Still, he was acutely aware of their danger, their exposure; it would be easy for HYDRA to stage a counter attack here, while the Winter Soldier was unconscious and surrounded by far too many potential hostages. The team planned to move him to a private Avengers facility soon, but Bucky wasn’t stable enough yet.

When they reached Bucky’s curtained-off area — it wasn’t a room by any stretch of the imagination — it was quiet, aside from the slow, regular beep of the EKG and the rasp of the respirator. Sam tugged the curtain closed, affording them at least the illusion of privacy. He didn’t let himself look at the figure in the bed, choosing instead to read Bucky’s chart. It was largely the same as it was the last time he was here, but what few changes there were indicated slow, minute improvement, which made Sam breathe a little easier.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve said in a low voice.

The words seemed to break Sam out of his spell. He drew a deep breath and finally took in the sight before him.

Bucky looked the same as he had a couple of hours ago, which was to say that Sam still barely recognized him. He was swollen slightly from the drugs they’d given him, and the lower half of his puffy face was all but concealed under blue plastic and a thick breathing tube. He had a blanket covering him from the knees down, the thin hospital gown above bulging with the thick patches of gauze that Sam knew lay beneath it. His left arm was inert — Sam had locked it before they got off the ground — and covered in a plastic case that made it look like a standard prosthesis to anyone who hadn’t seen his x-rays.

Steve moved forward, and Sam moved back. As Steve kissed Bucky’s forehead, Sam had the sudden sense that he was intruding, even though Bucky was allowed two visitors at a time.

“I’ll just— I’ll wait outside,” Sam muttered.

“Please don’t,” Steve said. Sam stared at him, and, for the first time in two days, Steve didn’t look away. “I— please. Stay?”

Sam was certain he’d never heard Steve ask him for anything in such a desperate tone. He nodded and stepped up to kiss Bucky’s forehead as well, before taking the chair on Bucky’s left while Steve settled in the one to his right.

It was a poor imitation of the night before the attack that had landed them here. Bucky had been anxious about the mission, and he hadn’t wanted to let either Steve or Sam out of his sight. Sam and Steve had exchanged a look, and then a shrug, and finally a nod, when Bucky had asked if they could all sleep in the same bed for once.

It had been a little awkward at first, when Bucky kissed each of them goodnight, but after that, it got better. Bucky settled between them and asked Steve to go over the plan one more time. While he was talking, Sam fell asleep with his head on Bucky’s left shoulder, Steve’s arm a solid weight resting close to his neck. And the next morning, when he’d woken up with Steve’s hand on his hip and Bucky’s metal arm around his chest — it didn’t lose circulation, so Bucky often held him all night long — Sam hadn’t wanted to leave either of their sides.

He picked up Bucky’s plastic hand now. He was glad of the illusion, since it helped to guarantee anonymity when they needed it most, but he missed the metal. It would be comforting and familiar, as much a part of Bucky as his eyes, lips, or toes — none of which Sam could see at the moment.

“Brought you some things,” Steve said, breaking the near-silence. He lifted the plastic bag and set it on the very edge of the bed. “I got them at the corner store,” he added, “which was a little expensive, but I know you’d never forgive me for paying what they charge for this crap at the gift shop.”

Sam smiled faintly at their running joke about Bucky being frugal — “I’m not cheap, I’m just old,” he’d always protest — but he squirmed in his chair nonetheless. His insides twisted, and he couldn’t help thinking that he was failing. He squeezed the cool solid hand between both of his, wondering if Bucky could sense it, sense his guilt. He should have brought something, a balloon or some flowers for Bucky to enjoy when he woke up — Bucky loved gardenias, despite the price. Maybe the gift shop had some.

He really wanted Bucky to wake up. To feel his touch, to laugh at him for being so worried, to glare and give him shit for even thinking of spending money on him.

Meanwhile, Steve was digging in the bag, pulling out various items. Nothing he had brought was very big — baseball cards, robot and motorcycle figurines, and a race car keychain — but the trinkets brought a little character into the bland, sterile space. Steve narrated as he set the items on the small table in the corner, talking more freely than he had in days. Sam wasn’t really listening, since it was painfully obvious that Steve wasn’t talking to him.

He watched Steve arrange the little gifts and marvelled that his hands could be so steady now, when they’d been shaking before their trip to the motel. Sam had done that; he had eased something coiled tightly within Steve, and he wished that he felt reassured, that the sex had done the same for him. But instead, it was like he’d absorbed Steve’s anxiety while relieving none of his own; the tension pressing on his heart had only doubled in size.

His mouth went dry as a lump gathered in his throat, and, all at once, he had to get out of there. Steve’s monologue faltered, but Sam waved him off as he got to his feet and left without a word. He kept his head tucked close to his chest as he made his way back through the ward to the ICU waiting area and then down the hall to the men’s room, which was blissfully quiet and empty.

Or it was, until Natasha walked in.

Sam spun around when she appeared in the mirror behind him. “What are you doing here?”

“You’re surprised?” She shook her head with a small smile. “Seriously, Sam, I thought you were better at this.”

Logically, he knew that joking was the way Natasha dealt with things that made her uncomfortable — pretty much all of his friends and comrades dealt with discomfort like that — but Sam wasn’t feeling particularly logical just then. He was tired and sore and angry, sick of being the strong one who never asked for help and was never offered it because he never seemed like he needed it.

“Fuck you, Romanov,” he said, and turned away, avoiding her eyes.

There was a beat of silence before she muttered, “I deserved that.”

“You’ve just got no idea,” Sam went on. He found he couldn’t stand the sight of himself in the mirror, so he squeezed his stinging eyes shut. “What it’s like, what I’m going through.”

“Don’t I?” she asked, and Sam felt her small hand on his forearm.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I just— it’s been a rough few days.”

“I know,” she said quietly. “That’s why I’m here. Why we’re all here.”

Hesitantly, like she was afraid she’d spook him if she moved too fast, Natasha pulled on his arm until he turned around again, then drew him close for a hug. He resisted a moment before he uncrossed his arms and wrapped them around her.

Only after she started stroking his back did it occur to Sam that it had been days since someone had touched him like this — no sexual subtext, no intent other than his comfort — and how much he relied on it. Touching was just how he interacted with the people closest to him, especially in tough times, and somehow, in all this mess, he’d forgotten that.

As Natasha held him and made soothing noises, Sam thought about his mother, who’d always called him her little hugger, even when he got taller than her. She’d held him like this, just like this, when he needed it: when his grandfather passed away, when he was about to go to the Middle East, when he came home for Riley’s memorial and said he didn’t ever want to go back.

Sam tightened his grip, burying his wet face in the curled ends of Natasha’s hair. He didn’t know how long they stayed like that, but eventually, Sam let go, and she stepped away.

“Go get some rest,” she told him.

“I’m all right,” Sam replied automatically.

“Sam,” she said, somehow putting a lot into that one syllable. “Take it from me: just because Steve doesn’t need sleep doesn’t mean you can go without it.”

“This isn’t about sleep,” Sam mumbled before he could stop himself.

Natasha assessed him closely, her eyes narrowed but still kind. “Then let’s get you out of here for a while, and you can tell me what it _is_ about, okay?”

Sam scowled a little — he still didn’t like feeling like he was being handled — but he accepted her offer to go get some breakfast.

He hesitated on the way out of the hospital doors, though. “Bucky,” he began.

“Will still be here,” Natasha said patiently.

Sam nodded. It was true; Bucky wouldn’t be moving for at least thirty hours, until the doctors could be sure that the swelling in his brain had gone down.

“And he wouldn’t want you to go without eating for his sake, now, would he?” Natasha added.

“You’re right,” Sam said with a sigh.

Natasha linked arms with him as they headed across the parking lot. “I usually am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty sure that I stole the "I'm not cheap, I'm just old" line from Angel.


	3. Chapter 3

If anyone had told him a few years ago that he’d be sitting in a diner across from the Black Widow, talking to her about his recent sexual experiences with Captain America, Sam probably would have laughed himself to death.

But here they were, and Sam felt nothing like laughing.

“That first night, I just wanted to help him,” he told her, after drinking most of his coffee in one long pull. “He couldn’t sit still, so I took him to the motel, thought maybe he could sleep, you know?”

Natasha nodded and took a bite of her bacon.

Sam shrugged. “But he just paced there, too. I tried to hug him, and it became...”

“More?” Natasha suggested.

“Yeah,” Sam said, not meeting her eyes. “And then we just... kept doing it.”

Natasha hummed thoughtfully.

“I don’t want it to seem like it was all his fault. It wasn’t, I was just as bad,” he confessed quietly. “I thought maybe it’d work, it’d be a distraction—”

“Hell of a distraction,” Natasha agreed.

“And I really thought, one of these times, maybe we’d talk,” Sam admitted, shaking his head ruefully as he speared a hash brown with his fork. “Stupid.”

“No,” Natasha protested. “Steve’s a physical guy — I’m sure you’ve noticed how he throws himself into stuff, body first? You know him better than anybody else, Sam.”

“Except Bucky,” Sam cut in with his mouth full.

“Except Bucky,” Natasha agreed. “But believe me when I say you weren’t being stupid. I probably would have done the same thing. With the same motivation.”

Sam raised his eyebrows at that, and Natasha shrugged shamelessly.

“Like you said, sex can be a distraction. I’ve done it for less noble reasons, haven’t you?”

Sam huffed out a little laugh. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“Again: I usually am,” she said with a smile.

“But the difference is that you wouldn’t be cheating on your boyfriend by doing it,” Sam went on in a low voice.

Natasha smirked. “Says who?”  

“Okay,” Sam acknowledged. “Maybe you do have a super-secret boyfriend, and you would be cheating. But Steve is my boyfriend’s boyfriend, so we’re both cheating.” He paused, ran that back in his head. “Did that make sense?”

“I think so,” Natasha replied. “But also, no. Because aren’t you all in this thing together? Don’t the three of you...”

She trailed off and made a swirly motion with one finger, as the waitress topped off their cups of coffee.

“No,” said Sam. He thanked the waitress and waited until she was out of sight to continue. “It’s not like that. Steve and I, we... share,” Sam said, finally deciding that Steve’s word for it was the easiest to explain.

“You share Bucky. Separately,” Natasha concluded.

“Yeah. We talk all the time, though, about boundaries, and who’s comfortable with what.” He smiled. “We work it out.”

“Sounds very responsible and mature,” said Natasha, clearly teasing a little.

“It is.” Sam sighed. “Or it was.”

“It can be again,” Natasha said, serious once more. “This is... an aberration, isn’t it?”

Sam hesitated. Like always, she’d hit her mark, finding the heart of the issue, the spot that was the most vulnerable, the least clear.

“Do you love him?” she prompted quietly.

“I don’t know,” Sam replied at length.

“It’s okay if you don’t.”

Sam frowned. “Not really. I don’t want to think we’re just using each other.”

“It’s kind of what people do sometimes, Sam,” Natasha said gently. “If you can forgive that, he can, too.”

Sam nodded.

“Besides,” Natasha went on, “it’s not exactly a secret that you care about one another.”

“I do care about him, always have,” Sam admitted. “And since we started this whole sharing thing, I’ve seen a different side to him. I thought maybe it was all in my head. But now I can almost picture it, you know? Him and me. And Bucky.”

Silence fell between them again as Sam thought about it, about how happy he always felt when he came home from work to find Steve and Bucky already in the kitchen, making enough dinner for all three of them. How they spent their sleepless nights after missions or nightmares binge-watching cartoons, huddled on the couch with hot chocolate and cheese puffs, which were apparently addictive to super soldiers. How nice it had been, how warm and safe he’d felt, when the three of them had shared a bed two nights ago.

“Well,” said Natasha at length, pushing her empty plate aside, so she could lean in closer, “then I guess you have to talk to him.”

“Yeah,” Sam sighed. “But I feel like I don’t know him anymore.”

“Grief—” Natasha began.

“Changes people, I know. But it’s like I don’t know who we are without....”

He wasn’t sure he could say Bucky’s name right then, but Natasha didn’t seem to need him to.

“It wasn’t always like that,” she replied reasonably. “You two connected long before he came back into the picture.”

“True....” 

“So talk to him. And make him talk to you.”

“Any interrogation tips, Romanov?” Sam asked wryly.

“For Rogers? Just one: don’t kiss him, he clams right up.”

Sam chuckled humorlessly. “Too late for that.”

Natasha reached across the table, grabbed his hand. “It’ll be okay.”

Sam nodded with a tight smile. The waitress returned, and he leaned back to let her take their empty plates. He was fairly certain that she thought they were shy sweethearts, with the way they were holding hands and speaking in hushed voices.

“You folks need anything else?” she asked.

“Just the bill,” Natasha told her, reaching for her wallet.

“I can get it,” Sam protested, but Natasha wouldn’t hear a word of it.

“We’re not going back to the hospital,” she informed him as they headed for her Corvette, which stood out in the small parking lot like an eagle in a flock of pigeons. “You still need some rest, whether you’ll admit it not.”

Sam nodded, too tired to argue, which meant she was probably right. As usual.

* * *

They pulled up in front of the same motel that he and Steve had been frequenting, and Sam led the way to their room, but he stopped in front of the door. He couldn’t bring himself to dig out his key card, to open it and face the mess that he and Steve had made, to breathe in that same air.

Natasha didn’t say anything. She just touched Sam’s wrist and guided him down the row towards the corner unit, which she opened with her own card.

“Get some sleep,” she instructed, following him into the room. “I’ll call you if anything changes.”

Sam sat on the edge of the bed, but she raised her eyebrows, and he lay down obediently. He wrestled with himself for a moment, then finally managed to choke out a quiet, “Wait.”

“Yeah?” Natasha said over her shoulder.

“Can you—?”

He wasn’t sure how to finish the question, wasn’t even sure what he was asking for. She’d already done so much for him, it seemed greedy to ask for more.

“I can’t sleep. Alone,” he finished awkwardly. “So, can you just—”

“Yeah,” Natasha said again.

She put the chain lock in place and pulled off her shoes, then crossed the room to get into bed with him. She shuffled nearer without hesitating and opened her arms.

Sam was stunned, but he found himself turning, settling his back against her chest. Her arms couldn’t close around him the same way Bucky’s would, but as Sam shut his eyes, he realized the effect was the same; he felt safe and warm for the first time in days.

But it was still a little awkward.

“So — thanks,” he said, after they’d lain in silence for a few minutes.

“Any time,” Natasha replied. “You’re not alone in this, Sam.”

Sam hummed in agreement. “Guess it’s just hard to remember that, what with... everything.”

He almost said _Steve_ , and Natasha seemed to know it.

“He doesn’t know how to do anything halfway,” she said.

“True.”

“Have you decided what you’re going to say to him?” Natasha asked after a moment.

Sam shook his head. “I wish I could talk to Bucky about it,” he said, the words slipping out before he’d realized they were coming.

“Why can’t you?”

Sam frowned and opened his eyes. “What do you mean?”

Natasha shifted behind him, hauling herself up enough to rest her chin on his shoulder. “They say that people in comas are still able to hear what’s going on around them. And, according to the Winter Soldier files—”

“I don’t want to know,” Sam interrupted.

“Fair enough. Sorry,” said Natasha. “My point is that Barnes can probably hear you. And even if he can’t, talking it out might help you to get some clarity.”

Sam thought for a moment, then nodded. “That’s actually a really good idea. Thanks,” he said again.

“It’s what I’m here for,” Natasha replied dryly, and she gave him a little squeeze. “Advice, cuddles, and shooting things.”

Sam chuckled. “Didn’t figure you for much of a cuddler.”

“I’m not, except in very specific circumstances,” she admitted, her voice soft but steady in his ear. She paused before adding, “I’ll be gone when you wake up.”

“So romantic,” Sam murmured, finally feeling his fatigue wash over him.

“Romantic’s just not my style, Wilson,” Natasha replied simply. “Now get some rest.”

Sam nodded and did just that.


	4. Chapter 4

Natasha was as good as her word. Sam woke up alone, with only a text message to remember her by.

_Let me know when you want to come back & I’ll pick you up, cuddle buddy._

Sam smiled, a little embarrassed, but more so warmed by the sentiment. He started to tap out a reply — _Ready when you are_ — but then he glanced up at the window and reconsidered.

It was mid-afternoon. Through the gap in the curtains, Sam could see that the bright morning sun had been dulled somewhat by a network of patchy clouds. It was a lovely day for a walk, he realized, and he altered his message to tell Natasha just that. Then he put his phone on silent and slipped it into his pocket.

Alone and quiet — that was what he needed right now, and he felt a rush of gratitude towards Natasha, who’d calmed and centred him enough that he could see that.

He headed across the parking lot and on to the main road, passing the convenience store and a few motels that were even sketchier than the one they’d chosen. As he walked, he thought about talking to Steve. He ran scenarios, tried out sentences, practiced conversation openings.

But nothing seemed right, and, as he came into the business district, where the streets were crowded with small restaurants and shops, Sam gave up and let his brain rest. He tried to pay attention to the moment instead, using a few mindfulness techniques he had in his arsenal. He focused on his surroundings, on what he could see, hear, feel, and smell. He noted the colors and designs in store windows, the people chattering happily, the warm sun on his face, the familiar coffee aroma drifting out of a Starbucks.

The florist across the street.

He crossed at the intersection and doubled back, scanning the buckets of flowers arranged along the sidewalk. He touched the ruffled edge of a pink carnation and the smooth petals of an orange gerbera before he caught the unmistakeable scent of a peony, and he crouched down to be closer to it, to breathe it in.

“Help you find something?”

Sam straightened up and turned around to find himself facing a short woman with blonde hair and a shiny purple septum piercing. Her eyes narrowed as she took in his appearance; Sam could tell she was only a few seconds away from recognizing him and probably making a scene about it.

“Gardenias,” Sam said to distract her.

Her face cleared somewhat. “You’ll have to go inside for those. Straight to the back, Sofia will help you.”

“Thanks,” Sam replied, and he headed inside.

A middle-aged woman with silver-framed glasses and a long dark ponytail was at the back counter, and she, thankfully, didn’t seem to know or care who Sam was. He told her what he was looking for, and she set to it right away, arranging half a dozen red roses and a handful of greenery in a narrow white vase.

“Who is it for?” she asked as she worked. “Will you need a card?”

“Uh, no,” said Sam. He hesitated, then added, “It’s for my boyfriend.”

“Roses and gardenias,” Sofia sighed. “Your boyfriend is a lucky guy, to be so loved.”

She nestled the lone white gardenia into the middle of the arrangement, and Sam thought suddenly of Bucky in the middle of his bed, bracketed by him and Steve.

“Yeah,” he choked out, swallowing thickly. “Yeah, he is.”

“Any particular occasion?” she asked, as she adjusted each flower in some minute way.

“He’s in the hospital,” Sam said without thinking.

Sofia’s fingers faltered, and she looked up over her glasses. “Oh my gosh, what happened?”

When Sam hesitated again, Sofia grimaced. “I’m sorry, that’s none of my business.”

“No, it’s okay,” Sam reassured her. “He’s in a coma. But the doctors put him into it, so he should wake up soon.”

“Well, when he does, he’ll see the beautiful gift you got him,” Sofia said with a slightly watery smile.

“Gardenias are his favorite,” Sam replied, pulling out his wallet.

“Must be a classy fellow,” Sofia said, punching in numbers on the cash register. “Gardenias have a sort of old-fashioned charm to them, don’t they?”

“You have no idea,” Sam muttered, grinning just a little.

“It’s probably thanks to Billie Holiday,” Sofia mused. “So elegant.”

She’d obviously thought Sam had been talking about the flowers rather than the man who loved them, but Sam nodded nonetheless. He paid and thanked her, breathing in the flowers’ aroma as he left the shop. They would brighten Bucky’s corner of the ICU, chase away some of the antiseptic smell.

He walked on, stopping every now and then to sniff the heady perfume of the arrangement in his hands, glancing into shop windows as he passed. He’d needed this, he realized again. Needed to wander, to not think, to let his brain chug away in the background as his feet carried him along at no particular pace, in no particular direction other than vaguely forward.

A bright sandwich board caught his eye — _New books! Used books! Red books! Blue books! All 50% off!_ — and he wandered into the shop it was advertising. He checked out the titles and displays, avoiding the psychology and history sections, and heading to the back corner, which was labelled _Sci-Fi/Fantasy_.

He had an idea.

* * *

When he got to the ICU, Steve wasn’t there, which didn’t really surprise Sam. He had a sneaking suspicion that Natasha had dragged him away, too.

“Hey, baby,” he said as he set the flowers on the table behind Steve’s gifts.

He brushed some hair away, so he could kiss Bucky’s forehead, leaving his lips against Bucky’s skin for a long moment, breathing in, taking comfort in the fact that Bucky still smelled like Bucky, under a few layers of hospital scent.

“I miss you,” he murmured when he finally pulled away.

He settled in the chair on Bucky’s left side and cradled the stiff plastic hand. For a moment, there was silence, aside from the machinery and Sam’s own quiet breathing.

When Sam caught himself stroking his thumb along the back of Bucky’s hand, he felt a sharp, sudden longing. With a furtive glance towards the curtain, which was still closed, Sam pulled the bedsheets up until Bucky’s hand was covered, then slid his fingers down to the catch on the underside of the wrist. The shell sprang open, and finally Bucky’s real hand was there, slightly warmer than usual but otherwise feeling the same as it did any other time that Sam touched it, held it, kissed it to wake Bucky up.

Sam took one more chance and raised it to his lips, like this kiss could work, too. But Bucky slept on, the respirator clicking steadily, interspersed with the EKG’s beeps.

“So,” he began, after he’d tucked their joined hands out of sight again. “I have some things I want to tell you, things I need to tell you.”

He drew a deep breath. “For starters, I’ve been sleeping with your boyfriend. I didn’t plan on it, and I don’t know if it’ll happen again, but I had to tell you.

“It’s the craziest thing. When we first met, I was sure Steve was hitting on me. And it was hard to tell, but sometimes, when he looked at me... I don’t know. Because until you...”

Sam trailed off. Bucky still didn’t like talking about Washington.

“Until _you_ ,” he repeated, “I wasn’t ever sure who I was talking to, Cap or Steve. Then we went after you, and god, Bucky. I could see it, how far gone he was — is. I just had to back off, I couldn’t possibly...”

He shook his head with a little sigh. “And I was fine with that. I mean, I got a best friend out of the deal, right? Nothing to complain about.

“But your precious Natalia is a much better cuddler,” he went on after a minute, finding a faint smile in spite of everything. “Maybe you already knew that. You’d be so proud of her, the way she’s taking care of me. Of us. She loves you, too, you know. Not the way I love you, or the way Steve does, but still, I think she...”

Sam realized he was babbling. He stood up again, giving Bucky’s forehead another kiss as he squeezed the metal hand tightly under the blankets.

He remembered the way Bucky had started mumbling in Russian right before Sam had fallen asleep, on the day Stark had fixed his hand. After this happened a few times, Sam had finally Googled the phrase, so he could say it back, and he’d surprised the hell out of Bucky the next time he said it after he’d thought Sam was already asleep.

“Your pronunciation is terrible,” Bucky had laughed, once he’d gotten over the shock. “So I can’t tell: do you love me or do you love potatoes?”

“Well, I’m not your Irish boyfriend,” Sam had retorted. “I love you, you jackass.”

“So sweet,” Bucky had murmured, turning the words into a kiss. “What’d I ever do to deserve you?”

“I love you,” Sam had repeated then, and he said it today, too, because it really was as simple as that.

But today, the steady sounds of the EKG and the respirator were the only responses he received.

“And maybe I love Steve, too,” Sam sighed, sitting back down. “But I don’t know what to do with that. My mom always said sex complicates things, and even though she’s right about everything, I don’t know if I’ve ever been in a situation where she was more right.

“She still wants to meet you, you know,” he added a moment later, interlocking his and Bucky’s fingers. “Maybe for Thanksgiving this year. She won’t take no for an answer forever.”

Sam heard quiet footsteps and a rustle, so he snapped the plastic hand cover back in place and shifted away from the bed. A few seconds later, a familiar nurse entered, smiling at Sam.

“Hello, Mr. Wilson,” she greeted him. “Your turn for guard duty?”

“Hi, Jill,” Sam replied, remembering just in time that this was the explanation Steve had given for their almost-constant presence at Bucky’s bedside. He started to get to his feet. “Let me get out of your way.”

She waved a hand at him dismissively. “Oh no, you’re fine, don’t move a muscle,” she told him as she moved to the other side of the bed and fiddled with the equipment. “Just checking our numbers here.”

“Will Dr. Khan be in soon?” Sam asked. He wanted to speak to the surgeon about the damage to the ligament in Bucky’s right shoulder, to see if they could start basic physio as soon as he woke up.

“She’s in the OR until...” Jill frowned suddenly and pulled Bucky’s chart off the bed. “That can’t be right.”

Sam’s heart stuttered in his chest. “What?”

Jill looked up and gave him a stiff, professional smile. “I’m sorry, I lied. You’ll have to move after all. I need to access the respirator.”

Sam was on his feet in a flash, grabbing the bag from the bookstore off the floor when he almost tripped over it.

“What’s going on?” he choked, as he moved back all the way to the curtain, so he wouldn’t jump in and see for himself.

Jill didn’t answer. Sam forced himself to count to thirty before he could ask again.

When he got to twenty-seven, she turned to him. “I had to adjust the machines. Mr. Doe’s practically breathing on his own,” she announced, the surprise evident in her voice. “He’s turned a corner, he’s healing faster than I would have thought possible.”

“That’s good,” Sam made himself say, after a pause that felt much too long.

“Yeah,” Jill agreed. She put Bucky’s chart back and gave Sam a much more genuine smile. “I’m sorry if I frightened you. I just didn’t want to give you good news until I knew for sure.”

Sam nodded. “I understand.”

“Barring complications, Dr. Khan will be out of surgery in about an hour, and then she’ll start her rounds,” Jill informed him.

Sam suddenly noticed that his cheeks felt tight and realized it was because he’d been smiling constantly for the last minute or so.

“That’s a lovely arrangement, by the way,” Jill added. “Buying flowers for a complete stranger... You really are the good guys, aren’t you?”

Sam nodded, a beat too late, and she left, leaving him standing beside the bed. He looked down at Bucky’s chest, watching it rise and fall steadily — practically on his own, he thought, with a flash of giddy relief. Practically on his own.

After a long moment, Sam went to reach for Bucky’s hand and remembered he was still holding the plastic bag.

“Oh, right. I almost forgot,” he said, taking his seat again and digging out the book. “I brought you this.”

He examined the cover, with its red dragon half-buried in gold coins and the figure of the hero, tiny in comparison, barely more than a silhouette.

“ _The Hobbit_ ,” he read, opening the book and finding the first page of the first chapter. “You said you wanted to reread it before we could watch the movies, and, frankly, Buck, I’m tired of waiting. No time like the present, especially since you’re not about to argue with me about it.”

He shifted his chair closer, until he could rest his forearm on the mattress and take the case off Bucky’s hand again. He interlaced their fingers, and then he began.

“‘In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort....’”


	5. Chapter 5

The dwarves had just started their song about the Misty Mountains when Steve wandered through the curtain. Sam’s voice faltered, but Steve picked up the song without even glancing at the page.

“‘In places deep, where dark things sleep,’” he chanted softly, as he moved around the bed.

“‘In hollow halls, beneath the falls,’” Sam carried on.

He flicked his eyes up from the page as he continued to read, watching in snapshots as Steve kissed Bucky’s forehead and went to the chair he’d occupied before. He didn’t sit in it, though; the next time Sam glanced up, Steve was carrying it over to Sam’s left. He settled there, and they were suddenly closer than they’d been in days, aside from their artificial intimacy in the motel room.

Sam tilted the book slightly, letting Steve see the page. They read the last stanza together, and then a hush fell, broken only by the equipment’s steady reminder of Bucky’s silent presence. Sam wasn’t sure whether to keep reading or not; he coughed somewhat awkwardly.

“Getting dry?” Steve asked, his voice surprisingly tender.

“A little, actually,” Sam admitted.

“I could...” Steve began, and then he shrugged.

“Go for it,” Sam said after a moment, handing him the book.

“Okay.” He cleared his throat. “‘As they sang,” Steve read, “the hobbit felt the love of beautiful things made by hands and by cunning and by magic moving through him, a fierce and jealous love, the desires of the hearts of dwarves...’”

Sam kept his eyes on Bucky, but he reached over, finding Steve’s right hand where it lay in his lap. He brushed it with his fingertips uncertainly, and Steve turned his wrist, inviting the touch, taking Sam’s hand and hanging on. Sam let out a little sigh of relief at the contact, because it felt just like it did any other time they caught each other in the middle of a warzone.

While Steve read, Sam found himself leaning into that small point of contact, shifting slightly until their thighs were touching too, until their arms were aligned, warm and solid against one another.

Steve didn’t pull away when Sam slowly lowered his head, resting it on his shoulder, but Sam didn’t miss the tiny hitch in Steve’s voice, the way he tilted his neck to lay his cheek against the top of Sam’s head.

They stayed that way, Steve reading in a low steady voice, raising their joined hands to turn the page when he needed to. Eventually, Sam closed his eyes, letting the words wash over him, thinking that maybe he could rest here after all.

* * *

He woke up when he heard Natasha say, “Ridiculous.”

On his left, Steve mumbled a reply, and Sam lifted his head. He wondered how long he’d been asleep. Natasha stood before them with her hands on her hips, looking amused but unimpressed.

“What’d you say?” Sam asked her, dabbing at the tiny spot of drool marring Steve’s sleeve.

“I said, you boys are ridiculous. At least go nap somewhere you can be horizontal.”

“The doctor,” said Sam, suddenly remembering.

“She came by, I talked to her, everything seems good,” Natasha reported. “You can get out of here.”

“Just good?” asked Steve.

Natasha sighed, but it was more fond than exasperated. “Better than could be expected. They’re going to reduce the dosage, start pulling him out of the coma early tomorrow morning.”

“But that’s barely twenty-four hours,” Steve protested, pulling away to get to his feet but not letting go of Sam’s hand.

“I thought they said thirty,” Sam agreed, standing as well.

Natasha shook her head. “They did, but there’s a good chance he’ll come out of it himself soon. He’s healing almost as fast as you, Steve. And remember how well it went when the doctors tried to keep you in a coma after your body decided it was done sleeping?”

Steve clenched his jaw, his spine rigid, as Sam nodded, chilled by the memory of Steve waking up in the hospital after they found him beside the Potomac. He came to consciousness once every few hours, despite still being technically in a coma. Sometimes, he was lucid, teasing Sam with a repeated _On your left_. But other times he’d gasp and scream. About the ice, the mud jamming his rifle, the factory burning down with Bucky still inside.

Sam eased his grip enough that he could grasp Steve’s wrist instead, a gentler echo of the way he’d caught Steve a hundred times mid-fall. It meant safety, surety, and Steve shifted his weight a little, breathing out some of his tension.

Natasha stepped forward and wrapped Steve up in a hug. “He’ll be all right,” she murmured. “I’ll stay with him, talk to him, keep him grounded.”

“Okay,” Steve replied hoarsely, letting go of Sam’s hand to hug her back.

She embraced Sam next, nodding when he whispered his thanks in her ear, taking his place at Bucky’s bedside when they separated.

As he and Steve walked away, Sam heard her mutter fondly, “Honestly, Yasha, I don’t know how you get through a day with those two.”

They went back through the ward and down a long green hall to an exit. Sam breathed in the fresh air as they pushed open the door and headed across the parking lot. Before them, the sun was on the verge of setting, turning the edge of the sky a flat pink under the heavy clouds that had gathered. When they reached the car, Steve’s eyes, clear blue in the strange light, scanned the parking lot before he spoke.

“She’s got a point.”

“You think?” Sam asked. He’d intended it to sound sarcastic, but it came out more plaintive.

“Yeah,” Steve said, meeting Sam’s gaze. “Bucky would never let us get away with this.”

Sam chuckled. “True enough.”

He opened his door, but Steve didn’t circle around to the driver’s side.

“You want me to drive?” Sam asked.

“If you want,” Steve replied. “But no. I—”

He looked abruptly away, clearly struggling for words. While he waited for Steve to gather his thoughts, Sam watched a group of teenagers sauntering across the parking lot in their general direction.

“I’m sorry,” Steve said finally. “Really, that’s all there is to say.”

Sam smiled faintly — that wasn’t even close to the truth, and he had a feeling they both knew it. “I’m sorry, too,” he replied. “I took advantage—”

“I did, too,” Steve interrupted, his eyes bright and intense. “But Sam, I— I don’t want to lose you. Not because of this, not because of anything. Do you understand?”

“Yeah,” Sam said softly, after a moment. “I think I do. And you won’t.”

Steve nodded and reached for Sam’s hand, but stopped when there was the unmistakeable click of a phone camera, somewhere off to their right. Steve’s jaw went rigid, and Sam sighed.

“This clearly isn’t the place for this conversation,” he said in a low voice. “Give me the keys, I’ll drive.”

“Thanks,” Steve mumbled.

He dropped the keys into Sam’s palm and gave the teenagers a tight smile as he climbed into the car. Sam was impressed by his restraint; he only slammed the door a little.

Sam ducked his head as he circled the car, pretending he didn’t notice the whispers and shutter sounds, since acknowledging them sometimes made it worse. By the time he got in the driver’s seat, Steve already had his phone out.

“West lot,” he was saying. “But, Tony, you don’t need to make a scene. I just wanted to tell you in case— Yes, I _do_ know you’re better trained in this sort of thing, but—”

Steve shot Sam a look of exasperation that was so familiar it almost hurt.

“Okay, okay, we’re going,” Steve said, gesturing at Sam to start the car. “Thanks, Tony.”

As Sam was pulling out of the lot, there was a sudden glint of red and gold in the rear-view mirror. “Man, that guy wouldn’t know subtle if it bit him in the ass,” he remarked.

“It’s in his genes,” Steve explained. “Howard was worse.”

“Uh oh,” Sam said. “This isn’t going to turn into another one of your old man stories, is it?”

“In _my_ day...” Steve began.

Sam laughed, only realizing after the fact how easily they’d slipped into their usual banter, and how strange but welcome it was. He glanced over, just in time to see Steve coming to the same sudden realization — his grin slipped away all at once, and his eyes narrowed.

“Hey,” Sam said softly. “You’re allowed to laugh, you know.”

“It’s not that,” Steve replied, shaking his head. “I just— I missed this, I guess. Missed you.”

“Same here,” Sam mumbled.

He stopped at a red light and recognized the street signs; this was where he’d wandered, where he’d picked up Bucky’s flowers. He thought about Sofia carefully placing one gardenia in a vase of red roses and reached over to squeeze Steve’s hand.

Steve sighed. “We really fucked up, huh?”

“Maybe,” Sam admitted. “But we can fix it.”

* * *

Steve said he was hungry, and Sam realized that he was, too, so they picked up a few pizzas at a parlor where the staff was too busy to notice who was placing the order. As a result, it was nearly dark by the time they arrived back at the motel. The room they’d been sharing had, thankfully, been tidied up since the last time Sam was here. They ate at the small table in the corner, hardly speaking, but the silence was different, freer somehow in a way that Sam couldn’t quite identify.

Eventually, he realized that the feeling he was trying to name was familiarity. Like the moment of teasing in the car, this meal was almost normal, like any other time he and Steve hung out without Bucky; it was almost like Sam had his friend back.

Except that his friend kept reaching across the table to hold his hand.

The third time he did this, Sam pulled away. “Did Natasha tell you to do that?” he asked, a little snippier than he’d meant to be. 

“No,” Steve replied, sounding surprised. “She gave me a lot of shit,” he said, “but she didn’t say anything about that.”

 “Oh,” Sam mumbled, embarrassed. “Sorry, I guess it bugged me to think that you might just be following orders.”

Steve gave him a little half-smile. “Since when do I just follow orders?”

“Natasha is scary,” Sam protested weakly. “If ever there was a time to start falling in line...”

“True enough,” Steve agreed, his joking tone already gone. “I’m sorry. Really, I am.”

“I know,” Sam replied. “Me, too.”

“I wanted—” Steve sighed, looking down at his paper plate. “I wanted to be close to you, Sam, but I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“That makes two of us,” Sam said, then he chuckled a little. “Nothing straight about what we’ve been doing, that’s for sure.”

“Yeah,” Steve said with a quiet, breathy laugh. “That’s what Natasha gave me shit for,” he added.

Sam frowned. “Come again?” he said flatly.

Steve jerked his head up. “No, not— that’s not what I meant,” he stammered.

Sam waited for him to go on, watching a blush spread across Steve’s face, feeling Steve’s palm get clammy against his.

“What I meant,” Steve said finally, “is that this whole thing wasn’t, uh, how I pictured getting with you.”

He gave Sam a rueful smile, and a curious sensation started in Sam’s stomach, a light, airy feeling that spread upwards to his chest, his heart. Flying, he thought. Or maybe falling. He remembered what he’d told Natasha, what he’d told Bucky — _I care about him, I think I love him, too_ — but he hadn’t thought...

“Getting with me,” he repeated slowly.

Steve’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he gulped and nodded, his eyes wide and bright again. “Yeah. But if this— this thing we’ve been doing, if that fucked it up too much, I understand. We don’t have to...” He cleared his throat. “Nothing has to change.”

Sam hesitated, then let go of Steve’s hand and got to his feet. He circled the table until he was beside Steve, until Steve was on his left, where Sam had already started to think he belonged.

“It’s too late for that, Steve,” he murmured. “But I meant what I said: we can fix it.” He reached out, cautiously touched Steve’s faintly stubbled cheek, turned his head. “I’d like to try, anyway,” he added.

A slow, hopeful smile was taking over Steve’s face. Sam recognized the look: Steve was flying and falling right there with him, same as always. He leaned down, little by little until he could feel the heat of Steve’s slight breath against his lips.

He pushed forward at the same second Steve did. It was as much a first kiss — tender, hesitant, a little messy — as it wasn’t: when Steve’s hand cupped the back of Sam’s neck, it felt so familiar that Sam opened his mouth without thinking, letting Steve’s tongue dip between his parted lips.

He pulled back after only a few moments, stepping away so that Steve could get to his feet, then went right back to kissing him, shallow and gentle. Sam let himself be pulled close, breathing in through his nose when Steve wrapped his arms around him; Steve smelled like home.

Eventually, they broke apart and smiled at one another. Sam could feel that, like him, Steve was half-hard, but there was none of the desperate heat that had had them tearing at their clothes that morning. Instead, Steve skimmed his fingers along Sam’s jaw, down over his shoulders to settle at his hips.

“Is it okay if I sleep here?” Steve asked at last. “Because I can get another room if—”

“No,” Sam interrupted. He looked directly into Steve’s eyes. “Please stay.”

“Okay.” Steve kissed Sam’s mouth once more, then let go. “I’m going to go have a shower.”

Sam nodded, watching Steve cross the room and smiling at the bathroom door long after it had closed behind him. At last he sighed and started to tidy up the pizza boxes before changing into soft sleep pants. He got into bed, propping himself up against the headboard, and picked up his phone. Natasha wouldn’t be able to reply right away, what with the ICU’s policy on phones, but still. Sam wanted to tell her.

_No offense, but I think I might have a new cuddle buddy._

Hours later, Sam’s phone lit up the dark room, and he leaned over to grab it off the nightstand, careful not to wake Steve, who was plastered to his left side. Natasha’s message was only three words.

_It’s about time._


	6. Epilogue

The ice receded.

A slow beeping sound hovered at the edge of his hearing, filling in the gaps between the woman’s words. She talked almost constantly, telling him he didn’t have a mission, that he wasn’t going to be punished, that his name was James Buchanan Barnes, that he was her friend.

He didn’t believe her.

He tried to move, to break free, but they’d taken his arm, tied him down, probably because he’d struggled, he’d argued, he’d failed to kill the man on the bridge, the red-haired woman, the man who could fly. He’d failed, and now they’d taken him somewhere that didn’t smell familiar, and he wouldn’t ever get to go home.

“Yasha,” the woman said, a little louder but still calm.

Who the hell is Yasha, he tried to say, and where is home? But his mouth wouldn’t open. Or maybe it wouldn’t close. There was something down his throat, blocking his voice, his air. The beeping burst into his hearing all at once, ragged and frantic, and then—

It slowed, the woman said soothing things in a language he used to know, the world grew darker and quieter. The ice returned.

* * *

Thawing out used to hurt more, Bucky thought with a sudden, striking clarity. Or maybe it just hurt differently — a sort of all-over ache that began with hollow quivering in his chest and ended with violent shivers that shook him painfully from head to toe, resonating most in his shoulder, where metal met flesh.

But this thawing wasn’t like that. Instead, pinpoints of pain arced through his thigh, abdomen and shoulder — his right shoulder. His left arm was dead weight and hot like it was overheating, which hadn’t happened since he was under the Afghanistan sun for close to 70 hours in 1983. Bucky had improvised that mission, and Pierce hadn’t approved; that was the mission that had led to Pierce discussing the possibility of obedience fail-safes.

Thinking of Pierce made him realize that he didn’t know where he was, who was thawing him out this time. He tried to open his eyes, but they were too heavy — like the lashes had frozen together. He heard the beeping get faster as he twitched, hoping to force his eyelids apart.

“Easy, easy,” said a familiar voice in Russian.

Bucky relaxed at once. Natalia. She’d come for him after all. He got his eyes open at last, and there she was, in a chair to his left, leaning forward with a cup in her hand.

“I see that smile,” she teased. “Happy to have that thing off your face, huh?”

He made a sound, but she shushed him. “Don’t try to speak, Yasha. Your throat’s pretty raw from the tubes. Here, drink some water.”

She placed the straw between his lips and held it steady while he sipped carefully. The cool liquid soothed him.

“Better?” she asked when she’d pulled the cup away.

He nodded, suddenly sleepy again.

“You rest,” Natasha instructed. “Steve and Sam will be here when you wake up.”

Bucky’s eyes drooped down, and he smiled again, knowing that the next time he opened them, his best guys would be there to help keep the ice at bay.

* * *

They were there, just as he’d hoped, when Bucky next woke up. They were on his right, their chairs close together, Steve’s head on Sam’s shoulder, both sleeping soundly.

He wondered what time it was, how long it had been since Natasha left. Facedown on Sam’s lap, there was a book that seemed familiar, though the room was too dim for Bucky to make out the title. He breathed deeply; the room smelled like flowers, and he couldn’t think why.

He tried to move his left arm, but it was still inactive, still overly warm. Sam or Steve must have locked it, Bucky realized, remembering that he’d shown both of them how to do it, in case of emergency, in case they ever needed to stop him one day.

Something serious must have happened, he thought, but what—

Slowly, pieces of memories fell into place: the woods, the recon. The ambush. He remembered realizing that he wasn’t wearing his good Kevlar when the first bullet tore through his right shoulder. Remembered not having enough time to get under cover before the next shots came. Falling out of the tree he was perched in. Thinking _fuckfuckfuck_ the whole way down. Hitting the ground and seeing his own blood spreading out across his stomach. Wondering if this was the moment that HYDRA finally got him back.

He shuddered, feeling the pull of stitches across his gut, his thigh, his shoulder. Sam’s eyes opened at Bucky’s movement, and Bucky forced himself to relax again. HYDRA hadn’t gotten him after all; Sam had. Sam and Steve both.

“Hey, there you are,” Sam said. He reached out and took Bucky’s right hand while he nudged Steve’s head with his chin. “Steve,” he called softly.

Steve woke with a sharp inhalation, though his panicked look faded fast when he met Bucky’s eyes. “You’re awake,” he said.

Bucky nodded, not sure he would have enough of a voice to reply. Steve got to his feet to bring him a cup of water. Bucky sipped gratefully and made a cautious noise when Steve pulled the cup away.

“How’s that?” Steve asked.

Bucky’s throat hurt a lot less now. He could probably speak. “Good,” he croaked.

Steve smiled. “Good,” he repeated.

Sam stood as well, crowding up close to Steve. “How you feeling?”

Bucky blinked, surprised at their closeness, and wondered how medicated he was. “Gut hurts like a son of a bitch,” he complained. “And my arm’s hot.”

“Had to put the case on it,” Sam explained sympathetically. “We’re incognito, babe. Won’t be for much longer, though.”

Bucky nodded. “We going home soon?”

“Tonight,” said Steve, bending to kiss his forehead.

He kept talking, telling Bucky that he’d spent almost twelve hours going in and out of a coma, that Natasha had been with him almost the entire time, which made Bucky smile. He was surprised to learn that he’d missed the better part of four days total, but relieved to hear that, now that he was stable, they’d be going back to New York in a few hours.

While he listened to Steve, Bucky was watching Sam’s arm move, up and down, behind Steve; he seemed to be rubbing Steve’s lower back. After a moment, Bucky realized that he could see Steve’s fingers on Sam’s hip, meaning that he had an arm around him, too.

Bucky frowned. He was lucid enough now to know that something strange was definitely going on.

“The fuck is with you two?” he groaned finally.  

Steve fell silent immediately, and Sam grinned. “You owe me fifty bucks, Rogers,” he gloated.

“Do not,” Steve muttered. “You said he’d notice in the first two minutes. It’s been at least three.”

Sam just laughed, stepping away and coming around the bed to stand on Bucky’s left side. He fiddled with Bucky’s hand, popping open the case. Bucky sighed in relief, both at the cool air and at Sam’s gentle touch.

“Care to explain?” he asked Sam.

Sam waved his other hand in Steve’s direction. “All yours, baby.”

“Baby?” said Bucky, looking to Steve confusedly.

“We, uh...” Steve began, his face going from slightly pink to tomato with a sunburn.

“Spit it out, Stevie,” Bucky prompted.

Steve just shook his head. Bucky gave it a minute, but he didn’t go on. Eventually, Bucky rolled his neck and looked to Sam instead.

“Fly Boy?” he said, more amused than concerned. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

“We should probably talk about it,” Sam agreed.

“Or,” said Steve suddenly. He leaned in, his eyes flicking down at Bucky and back up.

Sam smiled, slow and sexy. “Or,” he repeated, leaning in as well.

Bucky saw what was going to happen about half a second before their lips met. “Oh,” he breathed.

“Good talk, Sam,” Steve said when they parted, their eyes still closed.

Sam made a small noise of agreement, and as one, they turned to face Bucky with identical, hesitant smiles.

“Oh,” Bucky said again. He started to grin, and once he started, he found he couldn’t stop. “This is going to be fun.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also on [Tumblr](mrsdawnaway.tumblr.com) if you'd like to chat. Thanks for reading and sharing your thoughts & kudos!


End file.
